


(it’s us) against the world

by ayuminb



Series: S7! Canon Divergence Adventures [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (aka the Suicide Squad gets saved by the Starklings), (also they're still sort of in denial - or Sansa's just being oblivious to it for now), (and the Night King doesn't get his dragon aww), (but that's nothing new), (except not really - they just spend some time skirting around DA TENSION), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, I will be adding more tags as the story progresses, Jon and Sansa are Idiots in Love, No warning for the time being - those too will be added as the story progresses, Protective Starks, S7E6 Fix-It, S7E6 Spoilers, Slow Burn, Starks being Awesome and Bonding, Wight Hunt Divergence, the pack survives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-12-30 09:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12105951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: Another impulsive decision; another Stark coming to his rescue. Jon wonders if this will mark the beginning of a pattern - he hopes not, as there aren't many Starks left to do the job. And in the wake of the Wight Hunt, he must accept one thing: he cannot shoulder this burden alone.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Chronologically speaking, THIS is part one of the series, if only because canon divergence here happens in ep6, as stated in the tags, during the Wight Hunt. Also, this is a multichap.
> 
> And it's the prequel to [a moment of peace (among this battlefield)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12099648).

He knows before fully emerging from his unconscious state – he’s back in Winterfell.

 

Jon cares not for the how or the why, only that he’s back home; _at last_ , he’s home, with Bran and Arya and _Sansa_ —he tries to sit up, too fast, too soon, because then he’s hissing in pain and falling back onto the bed, wounds jumping in protest.

 

Someone slaps a wet cloth against his face, hard enough to shock but not to hurt.

 

“Keep still, Jon, I think you’ve had enough of trying hurt yourself for a time.”

 

His heart _aches_ because – he knows that voice, he’s dreamed that voice, though always in a higher pitch and far _brighter_ , even when upset there’d always been an undercurrent of… of…

 

Joy.

 

Slowly, he lifts a hand to remove the cloth from his face, a little smile tugging at his lips.

 

 _(And – he can’t blame her, can he? For failing to convey her happiness when he fails as well? Even though he_ is _happy, so very_ happy _, and he’s sure she feels the same.)_

 

“Arya…”

 

Perched as she is, on the edge of his bed, she almost looks like she used to – back when things were still good, when they were whole and happy. Jon thinks he could close his eyes and see her bright, mischievous smile, her tangled hair and dirty dresses, unrestrained and wild.

 

She smiles back, genuine, and takes the cloth from him to fold it and place it over his forehead. “You’re so stupid.”

 

Her voice breaks and then she lunges at him, not caring about his injuries anymore – _no_ , perhaps, she needs this hug as much as he does. So he’ll welcome it. Jon braces for the impact, bites down his grunt of pain, pushes it all aside and closes his arms tightly around Arya. _Gods_ but he’d missed her, so, so terribly. His sister, _his little sister_.

 

She laughs, haltingly; his shoulder muffles the sound, where she hides her face from him. “Seven Hells, you’re a bloody _idiot_.”

 

He grins in response, drops a kiss on top of her head. “I missed you, too, little sister.”

 

Arya takes a deep breath before pulling away, her eyes bright with unshed tears, but Jon doesn’t bring attention to it, instead drags himself into a sitting position, slowly, until he resting against the headboard of the bed.

 

“How did you know?”

 

A loaded question. How did she— _they_ —know. How did they know where to _find_ him? How did they _know_ what was going to happen? How did they get there _in time_?

 

“Bran.”

 

She says it like it should explain everything, and maybe it does; Jon can’t be sure, Sansa’s letter hadn’t been too clear on that front. But it matters not, as their brother chooses that moment to step into his chambers – impassive and nothing like the boy he remembers.

 

Suddenly, Jon can’t quite shake the feeling that things are about to take a sharp turn to the _unknown_ , and most likely, it won’t be for the best.

 

“Arya, would you leave us for a moment? I need to speak with Jon, in private.”

 

*****

 

For all he had kept Sansa in the back of his mind during his brief meeting with Arya, Bran brings her forth along with the reasons from her absence.

 

So, she’s angry – he can _understand_ that. In fact, had he been in her place, Jon’s absolutely sure he would be angry as well; furious. He would be ranting and raging and stomping about and trying to extract promises from her to _never do such a foolish thing again_.

 

Knowing that, _acknowledging_ it, doesn’t make her continuous absence any less painful.

 

 _She’s busy,_ he thinks, hours after Bran had retired to his own chambers, _I left her in charge of Winterfell, of the North. She has many responsibilities now, of course, she can’t simply drop everything and…_

 

Sansa cannot simply _abandon_ her duties to tend to him, there is a Maester for that; he doesn’t know, having been away for so long, how hard it’s been that she can’t spare a moment to come by and check up on him.

 

There’s no time, he knows _that_ , Sansa does her very best to keep the North prepared for what’s to come – _Gods_ , but for all she fought him over the threat of the White Walkers, it seems she’s been doing everything in her power to make the people understand they needed to keep their focus further _north_.

 

Jon glares at his hands, fisted over the furs; stares at his whitened knuckles and the slight tremble.

 

He would have made time, though, for her—he would have spent the whole bloody time sitting at her bedside until she woke up, had she been in his place. Everything else could’ve waited, he—

 

_That’s unfair. I’m being unfair to her._

 

And he is, he _is_. Bran had said, hadn’t he, how Sansa had wasted not another moment to rally a small force of men and sent them beyond The Wall to protect their King, to delay no more than the absolute necessary. She’d acted promptly and, Bran had said, had most likely prevented what could have been a catastrophe.

 

_“The Night King would have gained control one of the dragons.”_

 

Jon knows very well what that _means_.

 

He remembers little of the journey back to Winterfell; knows Uncle Benjen isn’t _dead_ , that he had helped them cross The Wall while sparing as many lives as possible. Jon can barely swallow the thought, cannot _fathom_ what possessed him to agree to such an idiotic mission.

 

_“And then you would have made a terrible mistake, Jon, because you would think – there’s no other choice. But there is always a choice.”_

 

He had wanted to ask, what _mistake_ , what could he have possibly done that would be worse than lead a group of men to their deaths? But had refrained and allowed Bran to continue. Then things got confusing once Bran explained—tried to—how he knew. Confusing and, were it not for the fact he’s been face to face with both White Walkers and dragons, well… he would not have believed it.

 

Three-Eyed Raven. He’s still unsure of what that entails, knows only that it’s made his little brother a shell of what he used to be.

 

That breaks his heart.

 

 _“You should not be angry with Sansa for not being here when you woke up,”_ Brad had said, nearing the end of their conversation – or what he’d thought was the end of it, _“Brienne and I sent her off to rest some. She did spend the past three days by your bedside, never leaving. We had to remind her of her duties to Winterfell and the North.”_

 

Those words had eased something in him, had unwound the tension coiling his body, leaving him exhausted. Even now, as he lies there reflecting, deciding, Jon still feels them like a balm to his frayed emotions.

 

_“Then why hasn’t she come by now?”_

 

_“It has been a few trying weeks, before we sent the rescue party. Littlefinger managed to put a wedge between Sansa and Arya, manipulated Arya enough to propel her into… You should go talk to Sansa tomorrow, Jon, she needs comfort and I… am no longer equipped to provide it.”_

 

As monotone as he’d sounded, Bran had looked – for a brief moment – truly regretful at his admission. His joy at seeing whatever emotion remains in Bran had been short lived. And, Jon thinks, his gut reaction before agreeing to this talk had been spot on.

 

Nothing about these revelations turned out to be for the best.

 

*****

 

In the end he forgoes Bran’s advice of tomorrow.

 

Pulling on his breeches and boots, and adding his jerkin as an afterthought; Jon makes his way through the halls to Sansa’s chambers. His wounds pain him still, but as long as he moves carefully, he supposes nothing bad would happen. Halfway to his destination, he thinks maybe grabbing a cloak might have been a good idea – except he doesn’t remember seeing one in his chambers.

 

_(Remembers the fur cloak Sansa made him, probably still sitting where he left it at Eastwatch.)_

 

Brienne stands guard, unsurprisingly, and gives him an appraising look before nodding her head—Jon does wonders, though, if the Lady Knight ever rested—and takes a step aside.

 

“Your Grace.”

 

“She’s still awake?”

 

Brienne frowns, almost as in conflict with herself, and he finds his impression is spot on once she talks again. “She… hasn’t been resting well, and I don’t know how to help her,” there’s distress on her face, sharp and contrasting so very much with her stiff posture.

 

Jon rubs his face and nods at her. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

She gives a firm nod, and knocks on the wooden door before he can think of it. For a second, he knows panic; what to say, when he sees her? Jon hasn’t exactly come up with a plan, expected to find her asleep and that he would return to his chambers in minutes.

 

He’s all prepared to voice his change of mind, when he hears her voice:

 

“Who is it?”

 

His heart skips a beat, then trips over several until it’s hammering against his ribcage.

 

“His Grace, my Lady.”

 

A pause; he holds his breath—

 

“Let him enter.”

 

—and lets it go.

 

Another firm nod; Brienne turns to face the hallways again. He takes that as his cue, and it’s almost funny how hesitant he feels _but_. But.

 

But.

 

Jon grins as he pushes the wooden door open, steps through, and turns to close it. He half expects her to find her glaring at him; the other half expects her to ignore him until he break the silence first. His smile must throw her off, for her eyes flicker away from the parchments she’s been perusing for a second to look at him, a glint of defiance, but then she does a double take and it takes everything in him not to break down laughing.

 

Or crying; strangely enough, Jon cannot dismiss that possibility quite yet.

 

“Is something amusing you, Your Grace?”

 

 _Ah_ , so that’s how it’ll be.

 

His grin falters and fades into a soft tilt of his mouth. “I just remembered – anything that comes before the word ‘but’ is horseshit.”

 

Sansa arches an eyebrow, confusion dancing in her eyes though her face remains devoid of emotions. Truly, she must be very tired to let her mask fall, if slightly. It’s not, of course, that she’s used her mask with him – ever since that day in the battlements, after the execution of Ramsay, they’ve been as honest as they allowed themselves to be. He more than she; Jon’s always been quick to forgive and forget and believe.

 

Not so much she, whose hardships made her near an impenetrable fortress. But Sansa, she’s been thawing towards him, slowly, since their reunion at Castle Black; the weeks leading up to his departure for Dragonstone made it plain to him, she no longer used her mask when they were alone. Her trust in him, in her safety, enough to let herself be completely honest about her opinions with him.

 

He shouldn’t be surprised she’s closed off again; shouldn’t feel hurt. If anything, he should feel ashamed, having failed her so spectacularly at being there for her when she needed— _someone_.

 

_Perhaps, she was right to rebuff my promises of protection in the end._

 

Jon thinks of waiting a few moments before trying to break the silence, but again she surprises him by doing so herself.

 

“What is it you want, Jon, that is so important you couldn’t wait till morrow?”

 

“Where’s Ghost? He should be here, looking after you.”

 

A deflection, but he’s yet to think of a way to broach the subject he wished to discuss.

 

“Out in the woods, hunting,” and that explains Brienne. “Do not worry, he’s bound to arrive soon.”

 

The nonchalant way in which she says this, as if it were an everyday occurrence—a pattern she’s learned to predict, makes something tug at his heart. Both in joy and melancholy. He’s glad Ghost has at least managed to do what he’s been asked to. Glad his loyal companion had no qualms at being equally loyal to Sansa, but oh, so very sad because he’s _missed_ him.

 

Inexplicably more than when they were separated that first time, beyond The Wall. Seeing Daenerys with her dragons had made him yearn for his direwolf, though Jon knows that, had he the chance to reconsider his decision to leave him behind, he would do it again.

 

Sansa’s safety still comes above anything.

 

“He was good, Ghost, a most reassuring presence,” she says, after a beat. “I admit it was amusing to watch some of the most vexing Lords take a step back when Ghost would sit beside me during Council meetings.”

 

It is almost as if she wished to smile, but wouldn’t allow herself such luxury. And while not his main purpose for having seek her out, Jon finds it hard to care; if he manages to pull a smile from her, he’ll count it as a victory.

 

“Truly? You took him to all those meetings?”

 

“Not all. I did not wish to bore him; some.”

 

“The ones with these vexing Lords?”

 

And, _there_ ; her smile, small and fleeting but there _nonetheless_ , and he smiles in response.

 

“Only those.”

 

He suddenly shifts, from one foot to the other; she’s not inviting him to sit so he won’t, understands it won’t be easy. He doesn’t expect it to be. And as Sansa finally turns back to the parchments in her hands, it’s clear he’ll have to keep the conversation rolling.

 

“What happened to Littlefinger?”

 

Impossible it is, this notion, but he feels as if all the warmth of the rooms vanishes once the words hang between them; Sansa freezes, doesn’t look up, but every line of her body is pulled tight.

 

Her voice, when she speaks, is pleasant but so very empty. “Do not concern yourself over such matters, Your Grace; he’s of no consequence now.”

 

“What happened?” He tries to instil authority in his voice, but seeing her shaking hands very nearly brings him to his knees. “Sansa…”

 

“Leave it,” she snaps, closing her eyes.

 

Gods he should. He should beg her to find some rest and excuse himself, go back to his chambers and wait instead of prying. Pressuring her into talking. Had he not promised himself he would never do that, pressure her? Force her to do something she does not want?

 

But Bran’s words haunt him; Jon needs to know what happened, otherwise, how is he supposed to help her?

 

“Sansa,” he says her name, softly, reassuringly, conveying as much comfort as he can in that one word. “Sansa, please… Please talk to me.”

 

_Gods, let me comfort you. Sansa, just let me help you._

 

She shakes her head, stands up and walks swiftly towards the fireplace. He follows, but stays at arm’s length; every part of him itches to reach out and draw her into his arms, provide the comfort he knows she wants— _craves_ as much as he does.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” his body sways forward; he takes a step, but then freezes. “I’m so _sorry_ , Sansa, I should’ve been here to protect you. I _promised_ you I would and I failed and…”

 

“You didn’t fail—”

 

“But I _did_!” Jon reaches out, touching her shoulder tentatively; he needs her to look at him. “I did. You were _right_ … about everything; I couldn’t protect you, I walked right into a trap by going to Dragonstone, spent _months_ on a fools’ errand and all for _nothing_ —”

 

She turns around then, and the words die in his mouth. For an agonizing second he thinks she’ll yell at him – she’s holding herself so _tightly_ , eyes swimming with unshed tears and lips trembling. Thinks she’ll yell and cry and crumble and he can’t, can’t bear witness to— _she hugs him_. Sansa closes the distance between them in one stride and wrap her arms around his shoulders, fisting her hands on his jerkin and squeezing.

 

His hands hover for a moment at her sides before embracing her just as desperately.

 

“You didn’t fail,” she says, measuring her words; takes a deep breath. “You did protect me, because you left _Ghost_ with me. You told him to look after me, protect me, and _he_ did. Ghost, who is a part of _you_ —as much as Lady was a part of _me_.”

 

A pause; the way her voice breaks nearly unmans him. Jon buries his face in the slope of her neck, breaths her _in_ ; his heart clatters within his chest and he _wonders_ if it’ll always be the same – if his heart will always stumble upon itself at the sight of her, if his breath will always catch every time she gifts him with one of her smiles. If his hands will always itch to run through her hair, to trail over her waist and up her back and pull her closer, closer, and _closer_.

 

Gods he’s missed her, so bloody much.

 

 _Too close_ , he thinks, urgently, _I’m too damn close_. This isn’t proper; such an errant thought and he knows he’s been toeing that line for far longer than just _now_. Except he’s not just _toeing_ it now, is he. He’s simply blown it away. Has been steadily erasing it for months on end before setting sail for Dragonstone.

 

_My sister. Sansa is my sister; she’s always been my sister, but…_

 

But. But. But.

 

_She really isn’t, is she?_

 

“And your journey to Dragonstone was not in vain,” Sansa says, effectively dragging him out of his tumultuous thoughts. “We have the dragonglass. Two shipments of it and a third has just arrived at White Harbor and should be on its way here by tomorrow.”

 

“But I was supposed to come back with more than just—”

 

“ _Jon_ ,” she pulls back, breaking their embrace thought she does grabs hold of his hands, “I know you did your best to secure an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen. We’ll think of a way to make her understand the danger there is beyond The Wall. Let us not despair before giving it another try, alright?”

 

He heaves a sigh because he _knows_ it will not be as easy as _giving it another try_. The Dragon Queen has proven to be much too focused on getting the Iron Throne, on getting her _birthright_ , to consider helping them without asking that they bend the knee. Jon wonders if he should tell Sansa about it, about the choice he was given. He knows he won’t, not now when he feels so very exhausted, when all he wants to do is sit down with her and find some rest.

 

Make sure _she_ finds some rest.

 

“Come ‘ere,” Jon says, voice rumbling low; he tugs on her hands as he walks them over the settee in front of the fireplace, has to keep tugging until she relents and sits next to him. Closer than she would have before. “I was told you’ve been doing brilliantly ruling in my stead. As I knew you would.”

 

Sansa blinks, owlishly; there are faint shadows under her eyes, he can’t stop himself from reaching up and running his thumb over it. It doesn’t make her look any less lovely.

 

“You need to rest now, Sansa, if only for a moment.”

 

She nods, letting her head drop to his shoulder; a first, for them. “Only for a moment, then.”

 

Jon rest his head on hers, hoping this first won’t be the last.

 

Tomorrow, he decides, they’ll talk about the Dragon Queen tomorrow, after he’s enquired about what happened to Littlefinger – what happened between her and Arya. There’s so much he needs to ask about, so much _he_ wants to tell her—he wonders if she _knows_ , if Bran’s told her…

 

“Jon?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I missed you.”

 

Tomorrow, it can all wait until tomorrow.

 

“…I missed you, too.”


	2. ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which meetings are had, amends are made; the King in the North names his Heir and the Starks bond.
> 
>  
> 
> _[For a second she looks so frighteningly similar to Lady Catelyn—the one time Jon had seen her so feral and broken, after Bran’s fall—Jon doesn’t know how to react, doesn’t know what prompted this reaction from his little sister._
> 
>  
> 
> _“I didn’t know,” comes the strangled whisper.]_

An unfamiliar, high-pitched giggle wakes him.

 

And the feel of a snout nudging his face, before slobbering all over him, makes him open his eyes – to glare half-heartedly at Ghost. Then, he takes notice of a few extra things; there are furs covering his resting form where there had been none last he remembers, he’s also laying down – and he’s alone.

 

_“He is so very sweet, m'lady.”_

 

_“He is. A rare occurrence nowadays.”_

 

Jon frowns slightly, propping himself up on his elbows, looks over his shoulder to the doorway to Sansa’s bedchambers. He wonders who the man in question is, who is so very sweet that even _Sansa_ has to agree.

 

Ghost, clearly tiring of being ignored, leaps onto him, or tries to as his massive body doesn’t fit on the settee, forcing Jon to lay flat against the cushions again. Despite his grunt of pain—his wounds have yet to heal completely—he smiles as Ghost shuffles a little and starts butting heads with him.

 

Because that’s his _thing_ – _their_ thing. Ever since he was a pup, Ghost would climb onto his chest and bump their heads together to demand attention.

 

“I missed you, boy,” he grins. “I hear you took good care of Sansa, I’m proud.”

 

Ghost huffs and licks his face enthusiastically.

 

While the prospect of staying in Sansa’s solar for the rest of the day—for as long as he possibly _can_ —is tempting, Jon knows there’s a lot to do now. _Especially_ now. Sansa must have informed their bannermen of his arrival, if they hadn’t been there to see him being dragged into Winterfell, injured and barely conscious; surely they would want to see him.

 

 _And demand answers from me,_ he thinks. _Answers I own them, after all these months._ Arya had been quick to tell him of the Lords’ discomfort with his prolonged absence. He understands, of course, they hadn’t been happy with his initial decision to begin with.

 

_“Is he courting anyone, m'lady?”_

 

_“I do not know, Milly.”_

 

_“Would you ask your Lady Knight for me?”_

 

That catches his attention rather quick; Jon sits up, ignoring Ghost’s soft whine as his paws slides down to his lap, and twists around in time to see Sansa and her handmaid step back into the solar.

 

Sansa smiles upon seeing him, sending his heart clattering against his ribs at an alarming rate, not so her handmaid. Milly looks completely shocked by his presence in her Lady’s chambers, he can tell, but still recovers quickly enough. However not quickly enough to miss the curious look she sends Sansa.

 

She performs a clumsy curtsy, and bows her head. “Your Grace.”

 

“Could you call for a warm bath to be prepared for His Grace, Milly?”

 

The girl, no older than five-and-ten, smiles brightly at Sansa. “Yes, m'lady, right away.”

 

Jon waits until they are alone talk, until the wooden doors are firmly shut. “Is it safe to assume that it is well past morning?”

 

“Very,” she says, her smile diming a little; Sansa moves to her desk, motioning for him to follow – _gladly_ , he thinks, he would follow her gladly anywhere. “Let’s eat now; we’ve a long and tedious day ahead.”

 

He sigh, willing the frustration away and sits himself next to her. “Endless council meetings?”

 

“And endless damage control to do as well. The Northern Lords are not… _happy_ ,” she pauses, to gauge his reaction certainly. “They are more at ease now that you’re here, but—”

 

Her sentence halts once she’s realized the last word to part from her lips; he grins and Sansa gives him a rueful smile in return. Somehow, after his little history lesson on what their— _father_ did or said away from his daughter’s ears, it’s become a recurring thing between them leading up the weeks before his departure to Dragonstone.

 

The word slips; they stop and they _grin_ , and then proceed.

 

“Jon,” her smile disappears. “The Northern Lords also… they offered to make me Queen. In fact that incident was what propelled the… _argument_ with Arya.”

 

Sansa starts eating then, intent on avoiding his gaze and any kind of talking by taking slightly bigger bites of food than she would usually do. Jon follows her example, for a while, though he takes the time to savour the food. _Months_ – it’s been months of trying to navigate the intricacies of Southron politics and mining the dragonglass, months of eating food that’d been either too much or not enough.

 

 _There’s no venison like the one cooked in the North,_ he thinks.

 

Jon lets a few more minutes pass in silence before grabbing her hand. She freezes, giving him a startled look before relaxing.

 

He speaks only when they’re both focused on each other. “Are you still angry with me?”

 

“Oh?”

 

“About the wight hunt.”

 

She frowns, straightens her back and—ah, _yes_ , she’s still angry—her expression becomes frosty. “Try furious.”

 

He cringes.

 

Though it does not last, Sansa sighs and her demeanour softens again. “Jon,” she begins. “What… Why would you _do_ something like that? What _madness_ possessed you to go beyond The Wall, to catch one of those things?”

 

How to explain it? Jon does not know. How to explain that from the very moment they were asked to hand over their weapons he’d realized he would not leave that place without giving into demands that might cost him _everything he’s been fighting for_? How to explain that after a first disastrous meeting, he became a prisoner in all but name? That he was given leave to mine and send the dragonglass North only because Daenerys Targaryen thought it to be useless to her?

 

_(And Jon wonders if shipments will keep coming, now that he’s here, in Winterfell.)_

 

Oh, he is absolutely certain Sansa had garnered quite a bit out of his scarce letters. She’d made no allusions to it in her replies, though.

 

 _Because she knew_ , he thinks, she knew there was a very high possibility of their letters being intercepted. _She told me that, and she was right._

 

How can he explain he _leaped_ at the possibility to get solid proof of the real danger not _only_ to finally convince the Southron Queens, but because it provided him with means _to leave Dragonstone_?

 

 _Sansa_ – she had been just as doubtful of his claims as the Queens in the South the first time he spoke of them. She had looked at him that night after the Northern Lords placed a crown on his head, sitting in this solar, as he told her of what he had seen, of what he had been trying to escape from - what he had hoped to _keep her_ away from. She had listened and she had considered his words, and Jon had _known_ , she had not believed him then, but she had nodded and said:

 

“I trust you.”

 

It’s obvious she believes him now; obvious she’s believed him for a while, considering the brilliant job she has done in his absence.

 

So, _yes_ , it is hard to explain what madness came over him to agree to such foolishness, to _offer_ his assistance actually; but he had agreed and sheer luck— _no_ , not sheer luck. Perhaps, luck played a part, to have had so few casualties, but it’s Sansa the one who had saved him, and the group of men he literally lead to their deaths, once again.

 

The shift of her hand as it turns and twines their fingers together snaps him back to reality. Jon locks his gaze on hers; dares not to look at their hands and call attention to them, for he knows not if Sansa is even _aware_ of what she’s done.

 

 _She cannot be,_ he reasons. _She cannot mean anything beyond—she doesn’t know, Bran said…_

 

He wonders, then, what to do. He wonders how much _longer_ he will be able to avoid taking that one step that will send him tumbling down the proverbial hill. How much longer he can resist stepping over the line that’s become a blurry mess at their feet. Only for him; Sansa, she looks at him and she sees a _brother_ – she know not about lines separating them because for her there’s no need for those lines.

 

Her affections have not strayed to—the _forbidden_.

 

_(But is it forbidden, now?)_

 

_I am her brother, and only her brother._

 

He’s fought so hard to maintain the fragile balance he’d achieved—between keeping a respectful distance and still give her the brotherly affection she needed—after acknowledging the true nature of his own feelings. So very hard. Those last weeks leading up to his departure for Dragonstone had been the hardest to his frayed nerves.

 

Where Jon had found himself parroting one word repeatedly at any chance given: _sister_.

 

Always sister. At one point, it became almost a mantra, until he found himself answering back one evening, as he sat alone in front of the fire in his own chambers: _one more time and I’ll believe you_.

 

He’d stopped repeating it to himself in silence, but did not stop calling her that out loud – he _had_ needed the reminder.

 

_“You are my sister, but…”_

 

The journey to Dragonstone became imperative in more than one way, _then_.

 

He had thought, distance would _do_ ; it _would_ suffice, it would help him clear his head. People always say that absence makes the heart grow fonder; his heart needed not grow fonder—Jon doesn’t think it can possibly grow any fonder—he only needed to get it back onto the right path of fondness, the right _kind_.

 

A folly on his part – distance has made everything worse _(there is Littlefinger and how much he’d wanted to squeeze the life out of him; Tyrion and how he failed to reign in his sharp reply; Theon—_ Theon _whose live he’d forgiven because Sansa had asked it of him)_.

 

The raven announcing Bran’s and Arya’s return to Winterfell had been his undoing, because the overwhelming relief that blanketed him only served to make the contrast between his affection for his _siblings_ all the more sharp.

 

 _And now,_ he thinks, now he is back in Winterfell. Now he _knows_ , and the sickening feeling that had long settled in his gut lessened a little more with each passing second. He knows and he’s given himself just enough time to enjoy the thought, the what if, before he wrapped up this new revelation. He can’t focus on it now, still doesn’t quite know how to react to it; there are more pressing matters to attend, so he won’t react just yet.

 

Jon gives her hand a firm squeeze before retreating and resting his elbows on the table.

 

_(He is just her brother.)_

 

“It was a chance to leave Dragonstone, Sansa,” he says at last, her name almost a prayer on his lips. “And I took it.”

 

“But whose idea was it to go on this… expedition?”

 

“Tyrion’s. Said it was the only way to convince Cersei.”

 

Sansa holds a breath for a few seconds before letting it go slowly, and pins him with a look that makes him feel incredibly dim-witted. “Did Cersei agree to meet you all at Eastwatch? Is that how you were going to show her?”

 

“Er… No,” he pauses, resisting the urge to squirm in his seat like a nervous child; suddenly, the hastily formed plan sounds very idiotic. “There was supposed to be a gathering in King’s Landing, the Dragon Pit.”

 

“Does Tyrion honestly expect Cersei to do nothing dangerous once she has you all in one place? Do _you_?”

 

“The thought did occur to me, but—”

 

“ _Jon_.”

 

“I’m sorry!”

 

She pinches the bridge of her nose and, Jon swears, no one should be _allowed_ to look so—Sansa huffs, most unlady-like, and shoots him an exasperated glance. “Let’s finish our food,” she says, “we have a meeting with our bannermen soon.”

 

But he doesn’t start eating again right away. “Sansa?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I wouldn’t have minded,” he says, smiling and willing her to see his sincerity. “You should have accepted their offer to become their Queen… _our_ Queen. You already make a much better ruler than I. Perhaps I should abdicate today and—”

 

“No, Jon— _no_ ,” she doesn’t let him talk at all after; grabs his hands tightly in her own. “No. I’ve told you, haven’t I? Jon, you are _good_ at ruling. You are a good King. _You are_.”

 

“No ‘but’ this time?” he asks, a reference to the last time they broached this subject.

 

Her smile comes gently. “No ‘but’ this time.”

 

_(Even if she’s stopped being just his sister a long while ago.)_

 

*****

 

The meeting with their bannermen is both enlightening and as tedious as he’d thought it would be. It goes smoothly, for the most part, because he has the foresight to talk things over with Sansa before convening the Northern Lords.

 

 _“We can’t afford clashing in front of them now,”_ he’d said to her, _“better to resolve our differences in private and present a united front to our people.”_

 

Something he should’ve done long before now. Aye, her pleased smile might’ve been more than he could have handled back then as well as the sweetest reward.

 

His journey to Dragonstone is addressed; he listens to their complaints and gives them the assurances they want to hear. Jon gives them more than that.

 

He even acknowledges their desire to crown Sansa as Queen in the North; though he takes notice of some disgruntled expressions—most likely at his addressing what they might now consider an act of treason—Jon doesn’t let that stop him nor does he call out those who had spoken against him in his absence.

 

“I rode South, my Lords, despite your warnings and misgivings,” he says, “despite Lady Sansa’s insistence of a possible trap; despite everyone’s better judgement. It was a mistake and for that I apologize.”

 

He stands behind the head table; next to him, Sansa smiles encouragingly at him – in front of them, the Northern Lords and Ladies murmur their agreement.

 

Lyanna Mormont stands; the girl who, according to Sansa’s assessment, jokingly or not, is his staunchest supporter, and sometimes the most levelheaded of the lot. He nods his head at her.

 

“Your Grace, we are aware of the circumstances that forced your hand and made you decide to head for Dragonstone,” she begins, pauses long enough for the others to agree with her chosen words. “As it stands, and considering what is marching towards us, I would say it was a necessary mistake. As it, at least, provided us with this dragonglass you’ve said will help us on this upcoming war.”

 

“Aye,” says Lord Glover; he’d come to him to apologize personally before the meeting, as had Lord Royce, and Jon had accepted their words. “Aye, but we cannot afford to let those kinds of mistakes endanger your life again, Your Grace. We need our King to lead us now, more than ever.”

 

It had been a genius move on Sansa’s part, to assemble the rescue party with knights and soldiers of all those Houses pledged to him—pledged to _them_.

 

Because now that they are back, all those who survived have not stopped talking about the horrors they’ve seen beyond The Wall. Those who survived and were ordered to bring back their King to Winterfell post-haste, the rest of them were to travel at a more sedate pace; Ser Davos and the men he’d lead beyond The Wall being part of that group.

 

Now, there is not a soul within this very hall that doubted the legitimacy of Jon’s warnings. They know the real enemy to be further north.

 

Jon nods; here comes the hard part, announcing the one decision Sansa did not want to agree to. “It is because of this; because you all know I will not be staying behind the walls of Winterfell when the fight comes, that I have decided to name Lady Sansa as my Heir.”

 

The silence is deafening, as he expected; as he _also_ expected, the explosion comes from Sansa herself instead of the Lords.

 

“Jon!”

 

And it is all he lets her say, turning to her quickly and giving her a meaningful look, one that manages to stall her protests.

 

“I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again,” he begins, “Sansa, you did a brilliant job ruling Winterfell and the North in my absence. You’ve kept our people focused on preparing for the upcoming winter, and the war with the White Walkers. You’ve given them purpose and you’ve given them hope and no one here can say you don’t deserve it.”

 

A pause, for emphasis.

 

“Should anything befall me, I want you to rule in my stead; be the Queen in the North.”

 

*****

 

The one decision since being crowned as King in the North; the one all the Lords and Ladies have accepted.

 

And Sansa fights him over it.

 

 _“Let me help you,”_ she’d said, right before the hall began to fill with their bannermen. _“Jon, let me help you. You need to focus on preparing for war, on preparing our men for the battles to come. Let me take care of the rest.”_

 

She’d said she would take care of _the little things_ ; the household and the distribution of their supplies and the meetings with the smallfolk and the influx of refugees. That she’d make sure their people are properly clothed once the real cold begins to set in; and help him play the game. Those are not the little things, though; those are important things as well.

 

 _“I’ll let you help me,”_ he’d told her, after adjourning and before going their separates way, _“handle the little things, so long as you don’t fight me on this. Sansa, I want you to be my Heir, and I’m not going to change my mind.”_

 

_“That is your decision, and your decision is final?”_

 

_“Yes.”_

 

“Sansa knows you are right.”

 

Distracted as he is, Jon doesn’t realize he’s meandered into the Godswood until now. Bran’s voice makes him jump and spin on his heels, to find him sitting on what he has learned is his usual spot under the weirwood heart tree.

 

“Bran.”

 

His brother gives him as much of a smile as he can muster now, before tilting his head back. “She will come around, do not fret.”

 

Jon frowns, sitting next to him on one of the roots of the heart tree. “Is that… something you’ve seen?”

 

“No,” says Bran. “But I know Sansa; I know _all_ of you, more than you can imagine.”

 

“She’s fighting this out of sheer stubbornness, isn’t she?”

 

“She is.”

 

Years ago, they might have laughed a little at that. Years ago, Bran would’ve grinned at him before trying to climb one of the trees surrounding them. Years ago… Jon doesn’t think he has stopped _wishing_ for those times since reuniting with Sansa at Castle Black.

 

“Did Maester Wolkman give you the letter?”

 

His jaw clenches; Jon will never be comfortable knowing that Winterfell’s new Maester used to be part of the Dreadfort—the _Bolton’s_ household. He tolerates it now because they need a Maester and because, at the very end of the day, the old man is not _bad_. However, Jon would rather be rid of him.

 

“Aye, I got the letter.”

 

Which is why this letter is a Gods’ sent.

 

Sam is riding North, apparently a Maester now, for that’s the sole reason Jon had let him go to Oldtown in the first place. His dearest friend is riding for Winterfell, set to arrive in a week’s time, to help him find a way to defeat the Night King.

 

Jon thinks he _much_ prefers the idea of seeing Sam walking with Sansa around the Great Keep, if only for his peace of mind.

 

“Samwell Tarly…” the name hangs between them for a moment, before Bran looks at him again, eerily calm. “He knows not what happened to his father and brother.”

 

He takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax. Jon still has a hard time _believing_ what he’s been told; but neither _Sansa_ nor the bannermen had any reasons to _lie_. Now he questions all his interactions with Daenerys Targaryen; questions Tyrion’s insistence of her many accomplishments done for _the good of people_. Yes, he _does_ believe she has a good heart, perhaps even has the _best_ intentions in this campaign of hers.

 

But all of that means _nothing_ if she goes about instilling fear in people via her dragons; it sure as all seven hells means _nothing_ if she’s started burning noblemen for refusing to bend the knee. Missandei might say what she pleases; about having the choice to leave if she so desired it, because that is her and those that came with her Queen from Essos. Westerosi people seem to be held to another standard.

 

 _A standard that has them choosing between a life kneeling for a ruler they do not want,_ he thinks, _or death. Gods, but I got lucky._

 

He wonders what would’ve happened if he had stayed _longer_ , if he had refused more strongly to bend the knee. He wonders what would have been the last straw, and then he wonders no more.

 

_We need to focus on the Night King now._

 

Still, knowing the woman everyone claims to be trustworthy and good _lied_ to his face is not something easy to swallow. Makes him even more wary of her and her supposed good intentions and declarations of birthrights.

 

“Bran.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You said… you said you could see everything that has happened, everything that is happening…” he pauses, looks at his brother – Jon tries not to look for a glimpse of _Bran_. “Can you see what… will happen?”

 

Bran blinks, tilts his head back again, and closes his eyes. “What has yet to happen… the future is not set on stone, Jon.”

 

The silence falls around them and Jon sighs; he lets his brother do his thing and takes the opportunity to think on the plans that need to be made in order to survive the coming storm.

 

Not much had been accomplished after his naming of his Heir. The Northern Lords and Ladies had brought up the—old—news from the Reach: the fate of the _Tarlys_ , the soldiers, and the supplies. There had been a brief argument about what to do in the event of having the Dragon Queen turn her dragons on them— _fight_ , they had said. They would fight, never again would the North kneel for another Southron ruler, not even at the threat of dragonfire.

 

Sansa had noted his stress then, had appealed to the good conscience of their bannermen to _please_ excuse their King, for he had yet to fully recover from his injuries.

 

Jon does not wish to wage war against _three dragons_. He worries not about the Unsullied and the Dothraki; this far up North, they would not fare well in the cold. It’s the dragons that worried him; for how can he protect them—protect his family, _Sansa_ , against three fire-breathing beasts.

 

It is the one thought that kept haunting him in Dragonstone, haunts him still. It seems not even the tranquility of the Godswood can keep his worries at bay for long.

 

Arya chooses that moment to storm into the peace and quiet. A bundle of barely suppressed rage and energy, stalking over them as if ready to pounce and maim and _hurt_. She stops before them, hands clenched at her side, and glares. She glares and pants and he can _see_ , it’s taking all her self-control not to snap and – it’s the flicker of heartbreak that throws him off.

 

For a second she looks so _frighteningly_ similar to Lady Catelyn—the one time Jon had seen her so feral and broken, after Bran’s fall—Jon doesn’t know how to react, doesn’t know what prompted this reaction from his little sister.

 

“I didn’t know,” comes the strangled whisper.

 

Jon breathes in sharply; suddenly, and he _understands_. He stands up, goes to hugs her, but Arya steps back.

 

“Gods, Jon, _I didn’t know_ ,” she looks so distraught.

 

“But you do now.”

 

Bran’s voice, flat and unwavering, breaks through her despair. Though it ignites her rage once again and Jon goes to grab her shoulders just in case she reacts badly to that. Arya, his little sister, the one who’d been bright and wild and defiant but oh so happy – he knows that Arya would never _deliberately_ hurt her siblings. But _this_ Arya, dark and sarcastic and with an insatiable thirst for _revenge_ , is such a big unknown that he needs to take precautions even though it pains him.

 

In a way, while he knows expecting his little siblings— _cousins_ —to remain unchanged is unrealistic; yet Jon had not expected them to be so… _different_. Not the little ones; not _Arya_ and _Bran_. Not this much.

 

He aches for those old times once again.

 

_Time, I need to give it time. When Sansa came to Castle Black, we didn’t fall into our new relationship right away; it took time, it took months. This will be the same._

 

But he doesn’t have months now. He doesn’t actually know how much time he has.

 

“I thought you two would speak about it,” says Bran, “after Sansa found you on the crypts.”

 

“Yes, but…”

 

Arya closes her eyes shut, biting her lips, she tries to control her rage and her _grief_. It shocks him how he failed to notice it when she stormed here; because he’s _been_ there, he’s felt that rage, that grief. Only, while Arya seems to have gotten the whole story in one go, Sansa had revealed it to him in bits and pieces along the months they’d spent traveling the North rallying their bannermen.

 

He has been right there, where his little sister is, so he know what really bothers her.

 

“They’re all dead,” he says, and knows Arya understands him. “Every single person that’s hurt her, that’s hurt our family, is dead.”

 

“Not all of them.”

 

There’s still the Queen that sits on the Iron Throne.

 

“Aye, not all of them.”

 

“But soon,” she says, takes a deep breath and tries to relax.

 

It will be a long time before she can manage that, he knows, but it’s a start. Jon wishes Arya would let _go_ of her list, wishes he could hug her to his chest and promise to make it all better. Wishes he could ruffle Bran’s hair and see his brother _smile_. Mostly he wishes he could make all the horrors Sansa had suffered disappear.

 

Wishes have never done any good to their family.

 

“If you are quite done talking about me.”

 

Jon freezes on the spot at the sound of her voice, so does Arya; Bran turns his head to look at her as if expecting her. He and Arya follow his lead, turning to face Sansa as well. And really, they must look comical if she manages to roll her eyes in a most un-ladylike manner as she approaches.

 

It works, though, as Arya huffs and plops herself down next to Bran. Jon—he shifts where he stands until Sansa is within reach, and offers her his hand. Sansa smiles at him, and takes it; he leads her to the root branch he had previously occupied so she can sit.

 

“A raven has just arrived from Dragonstone,” says Sansa, handing him a scroll.

 

It’s sealed still, as it should be, though he wishes it weren’t. Hearing the contents of the letter might sound less dire if they came from her, he thinks. Good thing he’s decided to remain standing, he won’t be able to sit still after this, he’s sure.

 

“Well?” Arya says, motioning to the scroll. “Go ahead and open it.”

 

So he does, he reads it, and sighs. “Daenerys Targaryen is summoning me back to Dragonstone,” he states, resisting the urge to be snarky about the long list of titles that came before the thinly veiled command. “At my earliest convenience.”

 

Arya takes the scroll from him, looks it over and snorts. “Daenerys Targaryen can go hang.”

 

Shocking, it is, to see Sansa smirk at Arya’s words. “I have to agree with Arya,” she says. “Jon, you are not going back there.”

 

“You don’t have you tell me, but…”

 

“You don’t think she will give you a choice.”

 

“She isn’t giving him a choice,” says Arya, passing the scroll to Sansa, and then she smirks at him. “We won’t _let_ her take you, Jon, don’t worry.”

 

Jon snorts. “It’s not like she will ride her dragons up here to kidnap me.”

 

“She might ride her dragons up here to declare war against us,” says Sansa, scanning the letter attentively.

 

“That is a possibility,” Bran’s words send chills down his spine. “The Northern Lords and Ladies are not going to change their minds, are they?”

 

“No, not even knowing the consequences,” Jon sighs, rubbing his face in exasperation. “I don’t think they _realize_ what they’re saying.”

 

“The Vale won’t kneel either,” Sansa looks at him, somber. “Lord Royce is the new Lord Protector of the Vale, until Robin comes off age. He was clear when he said the Vale would not kneel for the Mad King’s daughter.”

 

“Perhaps they will change their mind once they see the dragons, but… Westeros hasn’t known a long period of peace since Aegon the Conqueror decided to take over the Seven Kingdoms. The most we’ve known of peace since being under Targaryen rule is a couple of decades, at most.”

 

“I can’t _risk_ a war against three dragons, Arya,” Jon says, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I’ve seen them, I’ve seen their _Mother_ ; self-control is _not_ a word you would associate with them.”

 

“But, Jon…”

 

“There’s no point in arguing among us about something that might never come to pass,” Sansa’s voice carries enough command to make them stop, but not enough to make them defensive and Jon smirks at her; she rolls her eyes. “First we must exhaust every other possibility to convince the Dragon Queen to aid us in the war against the White Walkers.”

 

“She will tell you what she told me; she’ll help when we bend the knee. I tried to convince her, Sansa, it did not work.”

 

“You’re not exactly well-versed in treating with Southron Queens,” she says, the hints of a smile tugging at her lips. “Let me handle her.”

 

“You plan on inviting her to come here,” says Bran, startling them all; it is so easy to forget he’s there now, considering how silent and still he is. “That might be for the best.”

 

“Let her come and see that marching her armies North will do her no good,” says Arya. “The nights are getting longer and the days colder; it’s only a matter of time, not even her dragons will withstand the cold then.”

 

Bran looks at them, all of them, and for a moment, his expression softens and then, Jon can almost swear he sees a glimpse of his brother. “Aye,” he says, softly. “The winters are hard, but the Starks will endure…”

 

“We always have,” Jon finishes in a whisper.

 

“Jon,” blue eyes pierce him with a look; all-knowing, all-seeing, “have you told them yet?”

 

The tilt of his head gives away whom he’s referring to; the girls look at Bran, curious, then turn to him.

 

“Told us what?” they say, surprisingly coordinated.

 

He has to turn away; Jon doesn’t want them to see his conflict. Last night, after Bran had revealed the truth about his parentage, ad been easy enough for him to push it aside in lieu of focusing on Sansa; this morning, _now_ , he’s decided to deal with it once all pressing matter were settled. Though it seems, that no longer is an option.

 

“I haven’t…”

 

“What do you need to tell us?” Arya asks.

 

Jon swallows, turns around to face them, Arya looks worried, and so does Sansa, though the Lady of Winterfell manages to school her expression after a while. He wonders if she’ll manage after he’s told them; worries about their reaction.

 

 _“I remember what it felt like being Brandon Stark,”_ he had said, before he had grabbed his arm and looked so painfully like _his little brother_ Bran. _“This changes nothing, Jon, you’re still my brother.”_

 

Will the girls be the same? _Arya_ , most likely. His little sister would reassure him, he has no doubt. And _Sansa_ – would she look him in the eye and call him brother as well? Would she call him cousin instead?

 

_Do I want her to call me brother?_

 

Jon sighs. “Not now, I…” he rubs his face. “I just need time to… understand.”

 

Time to find a way to understand without falling apart. The very foundation of his life, ripped from beneath his feet. The very thing that’s always made him proud, a _lie_. His _whole_ damn life. He can’t process the hurt right now, can’t think about it without wanting to break—to scream and _cry_.

 

And amidst all, the thrumming of a glorious possibility—he loathes himself a little for even considering it _glorious_.

 

Sansa stands and closes the distance between them; takes his hand and smiles. “Take all the time you need.”

 

_No, no I do not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there it is. part two. Jon's parentage has yet to be discussed among the rest of the Starks, but that will come in part three. also coming up: Davos and the Suicide Squad arrive at Winterfell, so does Sam.


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which some secrets are revealed, at last; Jon tries to be strong and reunites with a friend, not necessarily in that order

Arya gives him the details.

 

Atop the battlements, Jon breathes in the distinctive fresh air of the North – one of the many things he had missed during his stay in Dragonstone, one of the first differences he had noticed too. He breathes and _relaxes_ and prepares himself for yet another morning filled with meetings and plans and what are starting to sound like recycled arguments. He enjoys the quiet, mostly. It is not exactly silent—he can hear the soft sounds of nature and of Winterfell awakening bellow him. He would be able to see the children training under the watchful eye of Brienne in the courtyard if he were so inclined, if he were to lean over the parapets.

 

As Arya does, next to him, a little smile grazing her face that widens every time it’s a little girl swinging a wooden sword. Usually, she’s down there helping – she has a good eye to spot which of the trainees are best suited to wield a dagger or a short sword, those light of foot. She ought to know, Arya is incredibly quick on her feet, incredibly _hard_ to hit.

 

And _Jon_ —Jon is unmeasurably proud of his little sister, yet his heart breaks a little more each time he dares to think of the horrors she must’ve seen – must’ve endured to acquire such skills. Though while he can push all those thoughts out of his mind in the moments they manage to train together, he cannot do so at any other time.

 

 _Oh, little sister_ , he thinks, casts a quick glance her way, then turns around to peruse the frozen landscape surrounding Winterfell.

 

There’s another thought he has been pushing away. Not exactly because he would rather forget, only that he isn’t certain how to broach such a subject. Too much has happened following that little reunion in the Godswood, only a week prior, and not nearly enough time to deal. Ser Davos had arrived two days after that, with the team he had assembled to venture beyond The Wall, and some members of that team had immediately caused some friction within his home. Jorah Mormont being the most obvious to cause a reaction—which turns out to be true—thought surprisingly, not the one that garnered his concern.

 

Jon does _not_ want to know what transpired between Sandor Clegane and the girls; he’s seen the looks Arya shoots the man on occasion, has seen the frown on Sansa’s face on the rare instances she catches sight of him. He does not want to know, because he does not believe himself capable of restrain at this point – knows it is very likely he’ll run the man through with his sword if he were to find out, no further questions asked.

 

Then there’s the tension he has picked up from Arya whenever Gendry is about, and the boy’s inability to conceal his anxiousness around her does very little to appease him. Though on that front, Jon is less worried as, at the very least, Arya confirmed to having known Robert Baratheon’s bastard if not of his actual parentage. They were friends, she had said, but then they had gone their separate ways.

 

“You never did tell me what happened between you and Gendry,” he says, broaches a subject that has Arya frowning at him but Jon needs this distraction.

 

“Nothing,” is her reply, one she intends to keep short, if not for the look he gives her; Arya huffs. “Really, nothing happened. We haven’t even talked yet.”

 

“Why? You said you were friends.”

 

Her mutinous look makes him stop, makes him think it might be better to let this one go – for _now_.

 

“Your friend… Samwell Tarly is set to arrive later today, isn’t he?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“You’ll have to tell him…”

 

“I know.”

 

Jon can curse it all; everything is such a mess. Secrets being revealed at the worst possible of times, and things happening too damn fast—and now Sam—he can barely _cope_ with it all. Feels like he’s losing his mind; would have lost it already were it not for his family, he’s sure. _And let us not forget about Littlefinger_ , he thinks, the old resentment bubbling inside him.

 

Of course, that is something he will seldom forget. The schemes he managed to hatch before being discovered, probably making use of the fragile bond between the girls to instigate discord. Gods, but Jon hates himself a little, for not being here to protect them – mostly, he regrets the missing opportunity to take Littlefinger’s head once he had been sentenced to die.

 

He most regrets not being _there_ for Sansa and Arya.

 

 _“I did the right thing, didn’t I, Jon? I did the right thing, by having Ghost be the one to kill him,”_ she had said, after she finally relied to him what had become of Petyr Baelish; a quiver in her voice and a pleading look in her eyes. _“He didn’t deserve a quick death, after what he did… He started it all, Jon; Robert Baratheon came calling for Father because of him, he betrayed Father, he—”_

 

_“He deserved worse, Sansa.”_

 

However, while Sansa had been all too happy to explain the how of Littlefinger’s downfall—the plan she’d worked on along with Arya and Bran, the need to reveal it all to Lord Royce first so he would appease the other Lords of the Vale. She never did spoke of what happened between her and Arya prior to all of it.

 

And when he had dared ask, her expression fell into that placid politeness he so loathed and said there was no need to worry about it anymore.

 

“Tell me what happened between you and Sansa.”

 

So Arya gives him the details, remorseful but determined to be honest.

 

She tells him about the letter she’d found, how initially she’d thought it Sansa’s intentions to have Littlefinger get rid of it to further her plot to betray _him_. How she’d never even thought it might just be Littlefinger’s way to instill distrust, not until _much later_ became _too late_. She tells him about her confrontation, her words and Sansa’s words – and Jon cringes because, of _all_ the things to retain from their past, they chose to cling to their ability to say the meanest things to each other. Tells him about her training; there is no other way to explain her threat of taking Sansa’s face.

 

And Jon closes his eyes and curses and rages silently, bracing his hands on the parapets and not judging, only wishing that Littlefinger were still alive if only to kill him himself, squeeze the life out of him like he’d wanted to do back in the cripts.

 

“It was hard, being here in Winterfell,” Arya says, “seeing Sansa be the Lady of Winterfell. It’s hard _still_ ; sometimes I catch a glimpse of her and think of Mother, and that makes me resent her a little. It was worse when I first arrived.”

 

Oh, but she looks so regretful then, he doesn’t hesitate to embrace her.

 

“I couldn’t seem to forget about all we’ve lost; Father, Mother, Robb, and Rickon – their ghosts haunting me all the time, but then, it’s so easy to _forget_ they’re no longer here, too,” her voice breaks. “And Sansa—it was easy for us to fall into old habits. I fell into it faster than she did, as angry as I was. Trying to rile her up, to get a _reaction_ out of her, break her polite countenance as I did when we were children only…”

 

“You’re not children anymore.”

 

“No. No, we are not, and our petty squabbles were never going to be just that now—bringing up old grievances, those cut deeper now. They hurt _more_ now.”

 

“Things are better now, though. You’ve been spending time together.”

 

That gets a smile out of Arya; small but genuine. “Aye, we have. We should have done that, spending time together— _talking_ —right from the start but…”

 

“Hey, none of that,” he cuts her off, pinching her cheek. “Things are better now and that’s what matters. Mistakes were made on both parts and—”

 

“My threatening her to kill her was worse than Sansa hiding behind her courtesies though, you know that,” she says, looks down, and he could swear they’re back in time with how much she looks like a small child, waiting for her punishment.

 

Jon tilts her chin up, gives her a smile. “And Sansa forgives you for it.”

 

Arya winds her arms around him tightly, presses her face to his chest to hide. “Do you?”

 

“Of _course_ ,” and Jon, he’s so very quick to reassure her. “Arya, of course; if you had known, I’m sure you would have never—”

 

“Never,” she shakes her head. “I wouldn’t have done or said anything I did, if I’d _known_.”

 

“That’s all that matters.”

 

Finally, after a while, she pulls back – her smile is back; wider, happier. “Was it hard for you? After you reunited, was it hard being back in Winterfell?”

 

Oh, but that question—Jon is sure Arya expects commiseration, expects a tale of troubles revolving around trying to rebuild a bond. But the truth is: he and Sansa never had to rebuild anything, they didn’t even try to look for what kind of bond they used to have—they just formed a new one, built it from scratch.

 

Yet he doesn’t known how to explain that to his little sister, not properly – not without baring his very soul now, something he’s not quite ready to do.

 

“It wasn’t easy,” and that is a truth, “but Sansa and I, we found each other at our most vulnerable, our most broken—she _saved_ me, Arya, and I like to believe I saved her, too. But it wasn’t hard,” and that last part, that is a lie.

 

Because, it _was_ hard – just not as Arya expects. It had been hard, the getting to know each other, both so used to hide behind a mask by then, afraid to put themselves on the line again. It’d been hard, trying to help her through her night terrors _(the screams, Gods, those screams haunt him still)_ , letting her do the same – neither wanting to seem weak or vulnerable ever again. A constant battle. It was particularly hard, when they couldn’t agree on something, yet were unable to properly make their point clear enough for the other to understand.

 

Jon had never _truly_ seen how stubborn Sansa could be until she started butting heads with him during their quest to gather an army to face Ramsay. Had never truly appreciated how _brave_ she could be until she’d faced the monster that tormented her during many moons and boldly told him he was going to die.

 

It had been hard, at first, at Castle Black, and then more so, as they traveled the North rallying the Stark bannermen. But not once they’d retaken Winterfell. Not as they settled within the walls of their home, as strange as that might be. The ghosts of their family would never truly leave them, but Jon and Sansa managed to find the kind of peace they had _yearned_ in the past once they were here.

 

They fell into their roles of King in the North and Lady of Winterfell with surprising ease, then, developed habits and a domesticity that Jon didn’t quite realize until he set foot on Dragonstone and _craved_ it. He wonders if that’s when he started to toe the line – that blasted line.

 

Wonders if that’s when the shift happened; if that’s _why_.

 

The swipe of a wet and raspy tongue pulls him out of his musings. Jon turns to face Ghost with a startled chuckle, as Arya giggles next to him.

 

“You’re acquiring a bad habit of sneaking up on me, boy.”

 

Ghost huffs once before nipping at his cloak, his old one, as Ser Davos didn’t think to retrieve his new one before departing from Eastwatch. He nips and pulls but before Jon goes to follow, a thought stops him and he frowns.

 

“Shouldn’t you be with Sansa?”

 

From what he’s seen, Ghost only ever leaves Sansa’s side when either Brienne, Arya, or himself are with her; makes him remember he has yet to relieve him of his protection mission.

 

“Lady Stark awaits you, Your Grace,” the smirk makes the title sound almost like a jest, but Arya tilts her head to the side. “Time to meet your bannermen.”

 

Jon looks down to see Sansa waving at them, Brienne faithfully at her side. “So it seems,” and while the prospect isn’t thrilling, he can’t quite stop a smile from tugging at the corners of his lips.

 

“Won’t you attend the meeting with us?”

 

His sister makes a face of mild disgust, though there is mirth dancing in her eyes. “I’d rather not. It’s boring and I really need to pick up the training I skipped this morning.”

 

Jon nods, doesn’t press. Then, quickly, because he knows he risks an elbow to his guts, he drops a kiss to his sister’s head, ruffles her hair and trots off – his parting words echoing around them. “You should talk to Gendry; try to work on whatever issues you have with him, little sister!”

 

“His Grace should learn to mind his own bloody business!”

 

“As you wish, Little Princess!”

 

Jon doesn’t need to look back to know Arya’s probably growling at his back—and by the sounds of stomping, probably running after him as well. He sprints faster down the steps, hoping to make good use of his head start, or at the very least reach Sansa’s side so she can placate their incensed sister before she jumps on his back.

 

Small mercies, this light banter, this calmness that has settled around their home for the time being; it won’t last, but he can’t stop smiling, he’ll enjoy these little moments for as long as he possibly can.

 

*****

 

“I do not know what possessed you to tease Arya enough to incur this kind of retaliation,” as if her reproachful tone were not enough, Sansa dabs at his chin a bit too hard to bring forth a wince. “You are no longer _children_ , to be horsing around like this.”

 

“She wouldn’t’ve caught me if Ghost hadn’t tripped me.”

 

There’s another too-hard dab of the cloth. And perhaps—perhaps he deserves it, because no matter his scratched up chin or his bruised palms or his torn cloak, well. Jon cannot _keep_ the smile off his face as he lets her tend to him, sitting in front of the hearth of her solar.

 

Arya hadn’t really meant any harm; had she jumped on his back without the interference of Ghost he would not have stumbled, they would have still laughed about the whole thing, only with less bruises on his part. But Ghost—the traitor—he’d crossed his path and Jon had tripped, and Arya had jumped onto his back and then they’d fell and – well, here he is.

 

Gets that Sansa is more upset about him going to the meeting without tending to his wounds, minor as they were. She worries, of course, his more grievous wounds not fully healed yet.

 

Some of the Lords had been on their way to the meeting, had caught the remaining Starks in an odd display of childishness that had probably soothed their frayed nerves—Jon recalls Lord Royce gaze upon the sight they presented as Sansa berated them with something akin to fond remembrance. He supposes things like this can be forgiven if it gives their subjects a much-needed respite from all the bleakness that had permeated about Winterfell for a while now.

 

“I’m sure our Lords found it entertaining enough.”

 

He grins at her admission, is rewarded with one of those rare smiles of hers; his heart lurches, stumbles, and picks up at a maddening pace within his chest. Suddenly he’s catching his breath, feels like he’s run for hours and—Jon, he’s always been good at compartmentalizing, it shows now. Now that he can enjoy these little attentions from Sansa and not feel crippled with shame. He can allow his eyes trace the curve of her jaw, the shape of her eyes, appreciate the rosy tint of her cheeks, the soft tilt of her mouth when she smiles – like she does now.

 

Jon allows himself such indulgences, marvels at the joy lurking beneath her polite gaze and wishes more than anything to see it come forth once and for all. Knows with acute certainty that, if lying the world at her feet would break the chains of her restrained joy, he’d do so gladly. But Sansa no longer yearns for things like that, now her desires are much more complicated and hard to achieve – she wants for peace.

 

So he allows himself these small luxuries.

 

Because, the tighter his hold on the mounting sorrow at his parentage revelation, the wilder his feelings for Sansa run. Freer. He’s employed all of his efforts on pushing the grief aside for now, cannot muster any to control his reaction to his sister-turned-cousin.

 

Small mercies.

 

However, this makes him lose himself whilst looking at her; often enough that it’s starting to become too obvious. Sansa is talking to him now, but he can’t quite concentrate on the words. Just the compelling movements of her mouth.

 

“Jon!”

 

“Ouch!”

 

The sharp dab at his scratched chin startles him, again, and he half expects to find her frowning at him, for letting his mind wander as they speak. Instead, he meets a concerned gaze; an usual occurrence in the past several days. Whenever his mind begins to wander, there she is looking like she wants to smooth the frown out of his face, but is unsure if it would be a welcome gesture – or allowed.

 

Her gaze softens then. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yes, why do you ask?”

 

Sansa lowers the bloodstained cloth to her lap, fidgets with it for a moment before leaving it there and grabbing a hold of his hands. “This secret of yours… I worry it troubles you more than you let on.”

 

Oh, that is a given; it’s why he’s been pouring so insistently into the final preparations for the battles to come, why he’s occupied his time with one thing or the other without taking a proper break. He hasn’t expected to give Sansa more reasons to fuel her concern.

 

It seems his single-mindedness to postpone the inevitable has had the less desired effect. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to worry you.”

 

“Jon…”

 

He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile, squeezes her hands for good measure. “I’m fine, truly.”

 

And it is not enough.

 

“I know I said you should take all the time you needed, but,” there’s a pause, and she looks so earnest that he’s sorely tempted to let the words out in a rush, “Jon, this, _whatever_ it is… won’t even let you sleep properly.”

 

Ah, she’d noticed that as well.

 

It is true that sleep eludes him, since finding out the truth about his parentage—about a great many other things, worrying things. The one night he’d slept well had been that night spent in Sansa’s chambers. Ever since, he cannot rest but for a scarce few hours at most.

 

Because while awake he has a tight hold of his conflictive thoughts and grief, his dreams offered no such control. Offered very little comfort.

 

Sansa leans forward, closer to him as she brings his hands onto her lap. “I just want to help you. If… if you cannot talk to me—”

 

“It’s not that, it’s…” he’s quick to interrupt, lest she goes on thinking he hesitates because it’s her. “I was hoping to wait until Sam arrived, tell you all and—”

 

“I understand.”

 

“He’ll be arriving shortly, I’m told, so,” Jon takes a deep breath, “tonight.”

 

She nods, lets go of his hands and proceeds to finish tending to his wounds. The silence only lasts so long – Jon could smile at the thought, but after retaking Winterfell, Sansa rarely manages to keep quiet around him, always voicing what lurks her mind.

 

Oh, he knows she doesn’t reveal all her secrets; but she shares no lies and that’s enough for now.

 

“Is it something bad?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Your secret,” a pause, and then, “it’s something Bran saw, is it not?”

 

Yes and no, he wants to say. It’s a wretched thing, the truth, but also very much a blessing. He cannot explain it without telling her everything, so he settles for the one statement:

 

“It’s about my past.”

 

It’s in the way she stops her motions, how her gaze is quick to lock on his; it’s in the slight stagger of her breath before she pulls herself together—Sansa understands.

 

“Oh.”

 

A sharp knock on the doors—that’s perfunctory as these open almost immediately after—stops whatever she might have added to that soft exhale. Arya stands there, devoid of all the emotion she’d showed earlier in the day, and delivers her message.

 

“Samwell Tarly has arrived.”

 

*****

 

If Jon were asked to rate the many reunions he’s lived through the past several years, he would place this one second.

 

Sam, his dearest friend; he cannot properly say how happy it makes him to see him again, well and joyful—and _dreads_ , dreads the moment he’ll have to deliver the news about his family. They embrace tightly for a moment, and then they’re stepping back and smiling and exchanging quick recounts of their time apart.

 

His dearest and one of his most loyal friends – yet seeing him again will never ever compare much to having his family back. It makes Jon happy, yes, but—Sansa, Arya and Bran… having them back makes him _ecstatic_.

 

As much as Ghost did, once heI got him back – they’re as much a part of him.

 

Jon nods at Gilly, ruffles her boy’s hair and turns to his family. “This is Sam,” he says, and knows from the girls’ amused smiles that he’s probably breaching a great many protocols for proper introductions as King now.

 

He probably shouldn’t even be the one passing on introductions; Jon hardly cares though.

 

He chooses to proceed nonetheless. “This is Gilly, and little Sam.”

 

Gilly does a clumsy curtsy but smiles brightly as she says her greetings, the babe in her arms wriggling excitedly. Sam nods at them, blushing a little.

 

It is then that Jon falters, only briefly and, luckily, without drawing attention to it, as he turns to introduce the Starks, because – because, had he not _known_ , had he remained unawares or, maybe, had things been different, he would be introducing his siblings. And now? Now…

 

“Sam, Gilly, this is my family,” he makes a sweeping motion with his arm, “the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark, Lady Arya and Lord Brandon.”

 

Sam smiles nervously, shuffling a little, but he is no less genuine about it. “It’s a great pleasure to finally meet you all, Jon… when he did, he spoke fondly of you.”

 

Sansa’s the one to respond, as truly, he’d only managed to speak about his time in the Night’s Watch with her, so far. “He spoke very fondly of you, too… Samwell.”

 

Jon almost stutters, as she almost let Sam’s title slip – if he can claim the title, as he’s still a brother of the Night’s Watch.

 

“Oh, just Sam, please, Lady Sansa.”

 

Bran clears his throat then. “We should take this inside, there’s much to talk about and Jon wishes to share with us something of utmost importance,” there’s a pause. “Unless you wish to rest.”

 

“No, no,” says Sam, “I… I also need to share some important information.”

 

“I should put little Sam to bed,” Gilly says, smiling shyly. “It’s been a long journey for him.”

 

Sansa calls for one of the maids, tells her to escort Gilly to the chambers that had been prepared for them. And then they all move to Bran’s chambers.

 

*****

 

Sam already knows.

 

His friend gives him all the documents he’s found in the Citadel, concerning the matter. A marriage certificate—he’s not a _bastard_ , has never been a bastard—a birth certificate; his bloody name is Aegon. Aegon Fucking Targaryen.

 

_Seven Hells._

 

Jon had barely waited for the doors to close behind him before blurting out the truth, no use in delaying it any longer. Had walked to stand by the hearth, leant on it, his back to them all, and stated:

 

“Eddard Stark was not my Father.”

 

And now:

 

“What…?”

 

Sansa’s voice, soft and trembling, breaks through the momentary stillness of the rooms. Arya looks at him, at Sam, at Sansa, then back at him – disbelief shining in her eyes, it renders him speechless.

 

So, Bran retells his tale:

 

“Father’s journey to Dorne, to the Tower of Joy—he came back with more than Aunt Lyanna’s bones. He came back with her son – with Jon.”

 

It unravels from there; _everything_.

 

Sansa and Arya and even Sam, who’d come into this knowing, stare at Bran wide-eyed as he recounts events he has no right in knowing. As he guides them through a battle won at a great price, through the heartbreaking reunion between brother and sister – through a promise made and kept and a secret taken to the grave.

 

Jon knows all of this, so he keeps his back to them, focuses on the fire; briefly thinks of the Red Woman, wonders if the magic that brought him back would grant him some of the visions she claimed lurked within the flames. Jon sees nothing, instead shields his heart for an explosion – a reaction he both wants and dreads, depending on who delivers it.

 

“Lyanna Stark’s son; his father is Rhaegar Targaryen,” says Bran, “He’s our cousin.”

 

And then—

 

“He’s our _brother_.”

 

Arya’s retort is sharp and loud; there’s some shuffling about and Jon freezes when her arms slip around his waist. He takes a deep breath, holds it, before releasing it in a rush—turns around and hugs her back. Back when they were kids, Arya reached his chest and then only just barely, now she barely reaches his shoulder – she fits perfectly in the cradle of his arms and if Jon closes his eyes, they could be back to that day they left Winterfell.

 

His gaze wanders – locks with Bran’s, whose smile is so very faint it might not even be there, and Sam whoe smiles tentatively at him—and won’t that be another _devastating_ truth—to finally land on _Sansa_.

 

Sansa, who is strangely quiet, who doesn’t look at him; her eyes on her lap, wringing hands, shoulders tense and face devoid of emotions.

 

_Say something._

 

The anxiousness threatens to burst, the _fear_ —will this break them, then, the relationship they’ve managed to build since embracing on the courtyard of Castle Black? Had it all been dependent upon their status of brother and sister? For all intents and purposes, he’s a _Targaryen_ now. Not in the ways that matter but in _name_ – and isn’t that the only way it matters?

 

“Sansa, say something!”

 

And, oh, but he doesn’t want to be another thing the girls quarrel over now. Not now that they’re finally learning to let _go_ of their old habits.

 

But Arya’s harsh tone snaps her sister out of whatever trance she fell into. Sansa starts and looks up, shock and confusion written all over her face – this is the most open she’s seen her in a while now. She stands and seems to sway on the spot for a moment—Jon grabs Arya’s shoulder to move her aside and go catch her, Sansa’s going to _fall_ —but then she stills.

 

“I…”

 

She crosses the distance between them, that puts Arya at ease and she extends her hand, pulling Sansa close and into their embrace. And that’s it, he _thinks_ it is. _Siblings_ , the lot of them.

 

“This changes nothing, Jon,” Arya’s words, an echo of Bran’s, from days ago, “you’re still our brother.”

 

But he – he hardly listens, focused at Sansa’s troubled gaze as she looks at him, alternating between glancing at Bran and Arya. He wants to ask, what _troubles_ her, is it him, his Targaryen blood? Is it something _else_ , the North’s reception of this news? The chaos this revelation will unleash, with the Mother of Dragons, as his claim supersedes hers?

 

_Is it something else?_

 

Her name slips past his lips before he can quite process it, and her eyes lock on him; the confusion and conflict, it’s gone, _abruptly_. Her blue gaze, clear and bright like the summer sky from what feels so long ago— _and seven hells, Snow, you’re waxing poetic now_ —is resolute now, though he can almost catch something else lurking underneath.

 

Something that sets his skin aflame, that gives him hope; a what if, what if, _what if_.

 

“Jon is Jon,” she says, at last, hands grabbing at his doublet, “and he’s a Stark.”

 

Little else truly matters.

 

*****

 

But Jon remains standing; Jon remains strong—

 

Sam excuses himself, _sensing_ , perhaps, the need for the family to deal with this together—in private. Asks for directions, which Sansa gives, yet insists that he finds a maid so she can take him there faster. Sam excuses himself, gives them a shy smile, and closes the door behind him.

 

—and then Jon crumbles; and then he weeps.

 

*****

 

“You’ll freeze if you stay here much longer in that tattered cloak.”

 

He sighs, rubs a hand down his face and shoots her a little smile, hoping it’s good enough. His temples feel like they’ve been hammered overnight – and still going at it. A relentless throbbing that eventually has him squeezing his eyes shut. He considers briefly if he should just stick his head in one of the many snow piles littering the battlements, but guesses that might give him away.

 

"I'm sorry, for losing—" he makes a vague gesture, "—did I ever tell you how much I… _liked_ the cloak you made me? Very much, Sansa."

 

"I'm glad," she smiles, that lovely upturn of the lips she did back when she gifted him the cloak, pleased and beautiful, "and it's alright, Jon. It's not really lost, though, is it? Just _misplaced_."

 

He chuckles, even if barely. "At Eastwatch."

 

Her smiles widens a bit, and she moves to stand right next to him, overlooking the vast expanse of land between Winterfell and the Wolfswood. She's bundled up accordingly, to fight the cold – but Jon needs this, to feel the cold, this reminder that he does, _truly_ , belong here.

 

"How are you?"

 

Soft and soothing, her tone carries all the concern that a thousand words would fail at conveying. Her hand is a steady reminder that he doesn't need to do this alone, that she's right there; burns through his clothes until he can swear her touch sears his skin.

 

Bran and Arya – they'd given him the reassurance he'd craved from _them_ , his brother and sister. One in a steady whisper, the other in a loud shout. But exactly what he'd needed – needs still.

 

Sansa's response had been ambiguous, and he knows it's because she'd been trying to _understand_. He could see it in her eyes, the confusion, and the uncertainty. Yet he knows he has her unwavering support, just as everyone else.

 

But he _needs_ —more.

 

Jon needs her to put a name to them – one that will either break him _or_ make him. But one he'll accept nonetheless. He can’t be the one to do it, he can’t put a name to them—not when there’s only one word that comes to mind and... _and_. He simply can’t.

 

Bracing his hands on the parapets, Jon gives her a humorless chuckle. “Better that before, at least.”

 

Seeming weak before his remaining family, it’s not something he’d ever wanted to happen. He needs to be strong for them now; with enemies coming from all sides, Jon can’t afford to break down, to weeps like a babe. Not when there are battles and possible evacuations to plan, people to looks after, food to sort for the upcoming months. And let’s not forget Southrons Queens to handle as well.

 

“Jon,” the light touch of her fingers makes him shudder, “Jon, it’s alright.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

Sansa cups his cheeks firmly then, stops him from averting his eyes. “The very foundation of your life has been shaken to its core – everything you’ve _known_... Yes, you _can_. If you need to rage and rant and cry, _do it_ ,” there’s so much feeling behind her words, it’s all he can do not to crush her against his chest. “If there’s anyone that has earned the right to do it all, it’s you. Just... don’t close yourself off.”

 

“I can’t afford—”

 

“Stop that,” her hand moves to grab the back of his neck and pull him into her a little forcefully. “Just— _stop_.”

 

He would laugh, if his throat weren’t closed up – because she’s always _doing_ this, to get her point across, to make him listen. She’s always grabbing him and invading his personal space—and Jon’s now very sure this is how it _started_. This is how things began to tumble down a different path for him; knowing she trusts him enough to seek contact, after _everything_. To push him at every turn, to question his decisions, to trust him with her smiles and laughs and what secrets she feels comfortable sharing as they sit next to a roaring fire.

 

Gods – but he can’t.

 

“I’m not telling you to shirk your duties, nor am I telling you to spend day and night locked away,” Sansa takes a deep breath, allows her other arm to wrap around his shoulders as well. “But _some_ time, even if it is only a few minutes... use it to try to...”

 

Yes, a few minutes, he can do that.

 

“This changes nothing, Jon.”

 

“Nothing?”

 

And there must be something in his voice, whisper that it is, he must be conveying _something_ —something for Sansa to draw breath as if to talk, before releasing it and pulling back. His arms close around her, not wanting her to break the contact now, but he won’t try to stop her if she wishes to step away fully. She _doesn’t_ ; Sansa pulls back, but just enough to lock her eyes on his. Her gaze is soft and affectionate, as it always is whenever she’s not particularly angry with him.

 

Then his heart starts clattering against his ribs because – there something _else_.

 

The same something else he’s caught a glimpse of right before she called him a Stark. Feels _different_ now. Perhaps it’s the question that hangs over them—unanswered but not ignored. Perhaps is the sudden tension sparking between them that seems to finally be acknowledged by _her_.

 

Perhaps.

 

 _This changes something_ , Jon thinks, lets his eyes drift close when her fingers trails over the scars on his face lightly.

 

“Come,” she say, a soft command that has him trembling; his eyes open slowly to meet her now darkened gaze. “I made you a new cloak.”

 

“Another one?”

 

Sansa smiles. “A better one.”

 

_This changes us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's POV will be coming up next.


End file.
